


A Span Penned in Blood and Ink

by Quillfiend



Category: Tyranny (Video Game)
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Diary, Magic, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-06 08:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18847063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillfiend/pseuds/Quillfiend
Summary: A wandering Fatebinder of Tunon's court comes to the aid of her childhood friend in Tortalus, witnessing the sorrow of the great archon of stone before the events of Tyranny.





	1. Introduction

_It was the 18 th Fist of Flames, and the weather up in the north honored the span's name; it was almost insufferably hot, enough for my friend and companion to shed his armor and continued up to Tortalus wearing nothing but his chain shirt. My mind's usually not good with dates, but that one was special - or was supposed to be special - as it marked the anniversary of the burial of my last blood relative. Truth to be told, I hardly grieved the loss of aunt Demestris; she was distant, like the rest of my family, leaving me to forge bonds with those cursed with wanderlust as I was; traveling merchants, crafty caravaneers and jesters walking the imperial roads were my clan, my tribe, moreso than my mother and father and the cousins I never met._

_There only ever was one woman I considered true kin; Wraithed Marzia, that poor orphan girl born in Tortalus' shadow who talked to pebbles and cobblestones. She shared her secrets with me, her joys and frustrations, and walked at my side for some time, but her heart was too soft to bear so many farewells and her talent too great to go unnoticed for too long. I despaired at my solitude when Marzia left for her homeland, but I found a semblance of comfort when news reached me that the Wild Man of the Hills took her under his wing; this came as no surprise to me, as I had always believed that a greater fate awaited my dearest friend._

_I was content to leave her to her new life, but when my master revealed that trouble was afoot in the north, involving none other but Marzia, I rushed to her aid as fast as I could. I feared the worst, and my worries were soon proven justified..._

 


	2. Flames 19

_After walking the imperial road from far east and suffering the arduous climb to Tortalus' peaks, one of Cairn's hidden monasteries finally presents itself on the horizon. I hear thundering sounds in the distance, anticipating a much needed storm; alas, Caedis crushes my hopes by saying that it is likely just the archon walking the mountains. I shudder at those words; how big can the Wild Man of the Hills truly be?_  
  


_Much to my dismay, no grand welcomes await us at the secluded temple. Caedis supposedly sent a messenger bird ahead of us to inform his brother of our arrival, but it seems that the letter didn't make it here - or his brother simply did not care. The Earthshaker's reaction to us is cold to say the least; our visit disturbed their meditations and they are not keen on sharing any details regarding Marzia or her master._  
  


_I heard one of the monks mumbling something about Cairn's sorrow, though. The atmosphere in the monastery is heavy, grim. Something is amiss, and I suspect that whatever is going on reaches far beyond Marzia's crimes._

 


	3. Flames 20

_I am tired. Cairn's thundering steps prevent me from getting any sleep. This seems to be of no issue to Caedis, who now jokes at my expense. When I meet him in the dormitories, he seems perfectly rested, joyful and free of worries._   
  


_I ask him if he does not feel that something is wrong. He says that something is always wrong when his brother is around. I laugh nervously, wise enough to not dig deeper into their family matters._   
  


_I wonder where this brother of his is, though. He does not come to greet us still, and the Eartshakers tell us that he walks in the steps of his master. They say nothing more, and my questions regarding Wraithed Marzia are once again left unanswered._

 


	4. Flames 21

_Since I cannot rest, I walk the cold halls. They are beautiful, eerily so, and I come to realize that none of the walls around me were built by human hands, but rather carved into the very mountainside with magic reaching far beyond mortal ken. This knowledge leaves me humbled, and I cannot but bow my head to the Wild Man of the Hills. This little gestures goes unnoticed by the unsleeping Earthshakers, chanting prayers and pleas to Kyros behind closed doors. Cairn's apprentices beg the Overlord for mercy, and I hear bitterness in their voices. They speak of a child of stone, fallen from grace and darkened in the eyes of the earth-father. Could they be speaking about Marzia?_

 

_I wish to burst in, but I stop myself in the last moment. I cannot risk angering our hosts, not now. I need to know more first, assess the situation. I am a Fatebinder, not a brat demanding to be heard through uncouth cries. I retreat back to the cell the Earthshakers graciously let me peruse and think of Tortalus. It heaves and moans under the archon's heavy steps, sharing his burden of grief._

 

_I briefly fall asleep as morning dawns on the mountain range. I'm plagued by strange visions of shattered stone and whispering bluffs._

 


	5. Flames 22

_Silence. Smoke. A stranger standing at the foot of my bed. My nose itches; I cough, choking as I behold the tall man staring me down. His pale skin reminds me of the white plains of Cardinalos; his eyes are the dark omens written into Kyros' bloody edicts. I fear death has come for me, but he extends no invitation to me, no pleas for me to join him in the afterworld._

_Instead he asks me if I am 'kith' to Wraithed Marzia - yes, kith - and those dark omens twist into pools of unbridled rage. I stifle another cough and lash out at the arrogant geist; he dares call me beast kith, insult my bloodline? I, Targis Almah, born of the eastern wealds and the very earth-womb that birthed Kyros, spit demands of respect at the apparition; I do away with my cover and wish to challenge him, but the bitter smoke makes my head light, my legs weak._

_Bony hands grab my shoulders and drag me out of my cell, but I find no reprieve from the suffocating fumes in the stone halls. The ground trembles beneath us, and I hear shouting, see panicked figures obscured by a veil of thick fog. There is no time for questions. We rush towards the temple terrace, and from there I can see what terrible fat has befallen Tortalus; its tallest peak cracked open and began spitting molten flame. And I feel fear, for despite being no novice to the magic school of fire, there is naught I can do to stop the raging mountain._

_Finally I regain agency over my body and shake the stranger's coil. I turn to run to the aid of Caedis, still trapped within the trembling temple, only to find the soldier at my heel. I feel relieved, if only briefly; my blood rises again when the monastery begins to collapse. I have questions, we all have questions, but those will have to wait. First we must escape the weeping mountain._

 


	6. Flames 23

_The sun is obscured by a thick gray drape, and I can no longer tell noon from night. They call it the Forgemouth - the bleeding mountain, I mean. I help us cross wild rivers of fire, but I get no gratitude from the Eartshakers, Caedis or the dark omen - his brother. Name's Radix, and all the mages dance as he whistles. None of them want me to be there; they tell me they cannot take an outsider to the Stonegrove, but I am not so easily shaken. I know it is not my poor endurance or my origin that makes them wish to be rid of me. Whatever is going on here is their charge, their responsibility, and they dread what judgement I could pass on them as an emissary of Tunon's court._

_The Forgemouth cries flame, burying temples and villages and claiming lives of Kyros' servants. I ask Radix whether it was Cairn who beckoned the mountain to turn on us, but he refuses to answer. The mage draws away from me whenever I hound him with questions, pelting me with bitter stares. He's angry, and he's afraid._

_Even as my fatigued body clings onto the last vestiges of fading consciousness, I do not relent. It is then that I am told that all of this destruction is Marzia's fault, that it was her crime that set in motion this chain of burning sorrows. That she sought to end a life that was not hers to end, and so she now lies bound in the Stonegrove, awaiting the judgement of her peers. These words bring me no closer to a resolution; I simply cannot believe them. Marzia is no murderer, and I will not stand for such claims until I hear a guilty plea from her very lips._

 


End file.
